His wife and two children were away visiting her mother
in Galway and he had closed the bar at eleven, intending fishing early. He was still awake when Cussane came down the street. He had been awakened from his bed by a phone call from one of McGuiness’s men. Deegan offered an illegal way out of the country to the Isle of Man, a useful staging post for England. The description of Cussane which he had been given was brief and to the point.
Deegan had hardly put the phone down when there was a knock at the door. He opened it and found Cussane standing there. He knew at once who his nocturnal caller was, although the clerical collar and black hat and raincoat would have been enough in themselves.
‘What can I do for you, Father?’ Deegan asked, stepping back so that Cussane might come in.
They went into the small bar and Deegan stirred the fire. ‘I got your name from a parishioner, Danny Malone,’ Cussane said. ‘My name is Daly, by the way.’
‘Danny, is it?’ Deegan said. ‘I heard he was in a bad way.’
‘Dying, poor soul. He told me you could do a run to the Isle of Man if the price was right or the cause.’
Deegan went behind the bar and poured a whiskey. ‘Will you join me, Father?’
‘No thanks.’
‘You’re in trouble? Political or police?’
‘A little of both.’ Cussane took ten English fifty pound notes from his pocket and laid them on the bar. ‘Would this handle it?’
Deegan picked the notes up and weighed them thoughtfully. ‘And why not, Father? Look, you sit by the fire and keep yourself warm and I’ll make a phone call.’
‘A phone call?’
‘Sure and I can’t manage the boat on my own. I need at least one crew and two is better.’
He went out, closing the door. Cussane went round the bar to the phone there and waited. There was a slight tinkle from the bell and he lifted the receiver gently.
The man was talking urgently. ‘Deegan here at Ballywalter. Have you Mr McGuiness?’
‘He’s gone to bed.’
‘Jesus, man, will you get him? He’s here at my place now. That fella Cussane your people phoned about.’
‘Hold right there.’ There was a delay, then another voice said, ‘McGuiness. Is it yourself, Sean?’
‘And none other. Cussane’s here at my pub. Calls himself Daly. He’s just given me five hundred quid to take him to the Isle of Man. What do I do, hold him?’
McGuiness said, Td like nothing better than to see to him myself, but that’s childish. You’ve got some good men there?’
‘Phil Egan and Tadgh McAteer.’
‘So – he dies, this one, Sean. If I told you what he’d done in the past, the harm he’s done the movement, you’d never believe it. Take him in that boat of yours, nice and easy, no fuss, then a bullet in the back of the head three miles out and over the side with him.’
‘Consider it done,’ Deegan told him.
He put down the phone, left the living room, went upstairs and dressed fully. He went into the bar, pulling on an old pilot coat. ‘I’ll leave you for a while, Father, while I go and get my lads. Help yourself to anything you need.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ Cussane told him.
He lit a cigarette and read the evening paper for something to do. Deegan was back in half an hour, two men with him. ‘Phil Egan, Father, Tadgh McAteer.’
They all shook hands. Egan was small and wiry, perhaps twenty-five. McAteer was a large man in an old reefer coat with a beer belly heavy over his belt. He was older than Deegan. Fifty-five at least, Cussane would have thought.
‘We’ll get going then, Father.’ Cussane picked up his bag and Deegan said, ‘Not so fast, Father. I like to know what I’m handling.’
He put Cussane’s bag on the bar, opened it and quickly sifted through the contents. He zipped it up, turned and nodded to McAteer, who ran his hands roughly over the priest and found the Stechkin. He took it out and placed it on the bar without a word.